


BBC Sherlock: The Schemer's Pit

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Epic Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 01:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: In this Post S-4 story, the legendary friendship endures. An unexpected encounter in a restaurant and a call from Lestrade reunites Sherlock and John for a mystery that has stumped the Met. While Sherlock makes brilliant connections to solve the case, John handles the inconveniences of Sherlock's work.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

> "Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another."   
> 
> Sherlock Holmes: _The Adventure of the Speckled Band_

**Chapter 1**

88 ** 88

**November 2018**

**88 ** 88**

" _Hmmm_ , Chef Scot Williams, is it?" John leant in closer when his turn in the queue of restaurant patrons brought him face to face with his friend. "Brilliant disguise," he confided in a muttered aside and a half-smile as they clasped hands.

"Disguise?" Sherlock eyes twinkled.

"This chef's get-up," John whispered, unable to resist stating the obvious about another of Sherlock's impersonations.

"Not a disguise," Sherlock whispered back.

John eyed his friend before stepping away to let another enthused diner greet the "chef" and shake hands. Sherlock was eating this up!

It had been minutes since the friends had encountered each other quite unexpectedly. John had finished dining with several doctor-acquaintances in the elegant _L' Effet de Serre._ The Michelin two-star establishment had earned exceptional accolades from the  _London Evening Standard_  in recent months for "expertly crafted dishes that were not just refined but inspired and original." The highly touted fare was the draw for the six wearied medical men who had left the London Conference Centre with tired minds seeking diversion through their stomachs. And  _L' Effet de Serre_ did not disappoint. The delectable dishes and desserts proved a rewarding way to end a day after the medical convention. Following their epicurean feast, the doctors had lingered over their  _digestifs_ until closing and then rose in unison, each good-naturedly whinging about early starts the next morning, when Dr. Nigel Whitby remarked to the maître d' about the excellent cuisine.

"Messieurs, please stay a moment," the maître d' had effused, his palms raised to detain them, "You must tell him yourselves…it is his last night with us," and he had hastened to the kitchen.

The maître d' made a speedy return and introduced them all to Sous-chef Scott Williams. While the others gushed with their compliments, John had been struck speechless. The quite startling entrance of his friend nearly knocked him off his feet, but John resisted dropping into a chair. What he could not control was the ear-to ear-grin that appeared on his face. Fortunately his fellow diners were also grinning in good spirits with the prospects of meeting the chef.

John pondered the reasons for Sherlock's masquerade. His colleagues were ignorant both of the real identity of their ersatz chef and John's personal connections with the man more accurately known as Sherlock Holmes. Keeping silent as Sherlock's ruse played out, John had hardly had to feign his amazement.

For each tedious minute that John hid behind his camouflaging grin, waiting and watching the satisfied customers filter past Sherlock with their adulation, approving smiles, and handshakes, his curiosity grew.  _What is Sherlock really up to here?_ It had been several months since they had last spoken and John tried to remember if they had ever discussed a case involving a restaurant. By the time John's associates had collected their coats in preparation to leave, he was squirming with impatience.

"Watson!" Nigel Whitby's dark-rimmed spectacles and flat, florid face suddenly loomed inches away from John's. Apparently, he had been trying to get John's attention and resorted to blocking John's view of Sherlock. "Taxi's waiting…, " Whitby was pulling on his overcoat, one arm already stuffed through a sleeve, but he was struggling with the second. "You're coming along with us, aren't you?"

John stepped behind Whitby to assist him with his coat "Here, let me help," he said and darted a furtive glance at Sherlock.  _Am I?_

 _No,_  John read in the subtle shake of Sherlock's head and quirky smile.

A shiver of excitement ran up John's spine with the thought of a case. He nodded that he understood. Detaching himself from the group with whom he had arrived would prove a bit inconvenient, however. Somehow—and irrationally—drawn into Sherlock's subterfuge, John fabricated several excuses, each sounded less convincing to his ear than the previous one. Resigned that his inability to lie was getting him flustered, he settled for the best truth he could provide without divulging his real plans. "No, but thanks. I'm fine," and waved them off.

"That was awkward," John chided his friend once the maître d' had seen the guests to the door and locked it behind them. John looked up at Sherlock, noting that the mien and comportment of the chef had dissolved. "You like doing this to me?"

"Not everything's about you, John," Sherlock dead-panned with a mischievous glint.

"So, you weren't trying to get my attention, then?"

"Not really, not like this," Sherlock eyes swept the dining room where the staff were clearing the tables and stacking the chairs on top. His eyes narrowed, his thoughts drifting elsewhere until with a sudden shake of his head his focus snapped back to John. "Texting's so much more efficient, but well, now that we've reconnected in this way, so much the better."

"What's with the disguise, then?"

"Not a disguise, John," Sherlock corrected again, smoothing the white double-breasted jacket he was wearing and releasing his sweat-dampened hair from beneath a simple cap.

"You let them  _think_  that you cooked our dinners, Sherlock." It came out as an accusation.

"I did," Sherlock replied with the slightest hint of self-satisfaction and turned on his heel. "However, I'd thought you'd be pleased. This once, I've made a good impression on your friends," he added over his shoulder, ignoring John's confusion and returning to the kitchen.

"What do you mean 'did'?" Stubbornness kept John from following. "That you misled them into thinking you prepared our dinners or that you actually cooked our meals?"

Sherlock paused at the double doors to the kitchen and gave the staring John Watson a playful smile. "Talk in here," he pushed open the right door and strode through—as if he belonged in the kitchen!

John lingered in thought. It was difficult to determine what upset him: Sherlock appearing out of the blue after being out of touch for months or Sherlock claiming to be the chef— _their chef_ —who prepared their sumptuous repast? Curious about Sherlock's artifice and determined to get to the bottom of it, John followed his friend through to find Sherlock waiting for him.

The kitchen racket was voluminous. Over the hum of running appliances and the rushing tap water, there was a cacophony of clattering crockery and banging pots, punctuated by the boisterous banter of the workers. The dish washers, with their arms elbow-deep in suds, soaked and scrubbed the grime off oversized platters and pots and stacked them to dry. The kitchen staff, holding loud conversations among themselves, wiped down the stainless steel cooktops, work surfaces, and prep stations to close down the kitchen for the night.

Sherlock waved John into the relative quiet of an interior office. Within the tight but orderly quarters, the cork boards on three of the walls were layered with notes, announcements, work schedules, regulations guidelines, and lists of butchers, fishmongers and greengrocers. However, the last wall was brightened by a large window that afforded an excellent view of the kitchen. Once the door closed behind them, normal speech was possible.

Sherlock immediately dropped into the swivel chair behind a large, metal desk that dominated the room. It was stacked so high with papers and assorted files that it concealed all but the head and shoulders of the man sitting behind it. John remained standing as the only other chair in the office hosted a precarious pile of _Kitchen Solutions_  and  _Nisbets_  supply catalogues.

"Okay, Sherlock," John adopted  _parade rest_  and eyed his friend's authentic-looking uniform jacket before resuming their earlier conversation. "I'm not displeased about you impressing my 'friends,' but, well, pretending to be a chef—when I know otherwise—put me in an difficult situation… as a doctor, I am required to inform the Department of Health if I believe there's been a breach in public safety— "

"—You think this is pretense?" Sherlock interrupted, clearly amused. He leant back in the chair and gestured with a sweeping hand at their immediate surroundings. "You don't believe me."

Their gazes locked. The shimmer in John's eyes clouded with skepticism.

"Oh, I see," Sherlock tented his index fingers against his lips to conceal his cat-got-the-canary smile. This would have been quite a satisfying prank on John if it had been premeditated. However, as the circumstances were completely accidental, Sherlock controlled his puckish pleasure at John's incredulity— _so as not to ignite_ _John's explosive temper in yet another restaurant_ , he thought—and addressed his friend without a hint of levity, "You need proof."

"You've faked things before, Sherlock. Just don't like being played for a fool… again and again and …," John admitted hoarsely with a half shrug. He shifted his gaze through the great window and focused on the pot rack suspended from the kitchen ceiling. "Seeing you here like this," his eyes came back to Sherlock, "was quite …a ...surprise—"

"—avoiding such a surprise would have been preferable, yes," Sherlock acknowledged with a nod, governing the impulse to chuckle at the memory of his idiotic antics as a French waiter. "Learnt my lesson the last time I endeavored to surprise you in a restaurant. To date,  _that_ was the only dinner engagement I've ruined, and Mary forgave me. So did you. Hardly seems that this one counts. Tonight, you enjoyed the company you were keeping, you ate your meal in its entirety along with dessert, and I did not inconvenience you with any disruptions until the very end—and for that I am not to blame."

"Yeah! You were a ridiculous waiter …," John's lips twisted in a crooked smile despite himself. The absurdity—once he had got over the indignation and shock—had made both Mary and John laugh often afterwards. It had been a running joke between the couple whenever they went out to dinner or grabbed takeaway,  _"Oh Lord,"_ Mary had teased cheerfully, nodding toward the random waitress, bus staff, bartender, or counter server, _"Isn't that Sherlock, John? My, his disguises gets better and better every time_ _."_ John savored both the memory as well as hearing Mary in his head **.**  He was also glad that remembering her lighthearted wit was less painful than it used to be. John fancied he could imagine Mary's hysterical reaction to Sherlock's current disguise. "Seriously, Sherlock. You promoted yourself to chef, this time?"

"Technically, sous-chef," Sherlock corrected.

" _S_ ous _-_ chef!" John snorted. "What's the bloody difference?"

"Well, John," Sherlock began in smug pedantic tones, "A sous-chef, depending on the establishment, has more supervisory than actual cooking responsibilities, although there are times if the executive chef is out that the properly trained sous-chef would take charge of the actual food prep…"

"Yes! My point exactly," John countered. "Properly trained!"

"Problem?" Sherlock narrowed his clear eyes at John.

"You don't see it as a problem?" John swallowed his exasperation. "This charade—what's it for, a case?—goes a bit far, even for you. Do you realize you're responsible for the lives of all those people you served? That includes me, thank you!" The volume of John's voice increased with his concerns. "Your actual interaction with the food could jeopardize the dishes. Any mistakes or poor handling of perishables could cause a host of illnesses...food poisoning… or introduce foodborne pathogens…serious stuff, but yet—" John stopped, struck by the incongruity of his next thought and shook his head, "despite what I know of your woeful lack of talent in this area, you've somehow made everything taste so… _bloody fantastic_! Utterly amazing! How, Sherlock? Did you drug us...with hallucinogens? Should we expect to be feeling rough in short order?" Winded by his excitability, John drew a few short breaths.

"Well, don't beat about the bush, John!" Sherlock retorted sarcastically, "Say what you mean!"

John stared at his friend whom he had sorely provoked—perhaps unfairly provoked—and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Since when do you cook?"

"Since it has been required of me…for this case in particular. You see, you got that  _one_  thing right despite muddying the waters with hurtful presumptions. For a case, John!" Sherlock's reply was icy. He had become defensive.

"A case? When have I heard that excuse before?" John threw him a vexed look but kept his voice level. "You'd cook like that for a case, but you'd never once offered to cook when we were in Baker Street."

"A- _HA_! So that's what's driving you round the twist—can't let go of the past now, can you!" Sherlock scoffed. "It wasn't necessary back then."

"Huh! Besides foisting your apparent culinary ineptitude on those around you," John raised his eyes and spoke to the ceiling as if it would better understand his frustration, "did you  _ever_  consider being self-sufficient and learning to cook would've been helpful?  _Bloody hell_ , Sherlock, knowing how to cook is a basic survival skill!"

"It has never been ineptitude, John," Sherlock refuted, unsure how the ceiling would afford any intercession to dispel what baffled John. "It's been a skill set I had not needed to perfect, until the last three years—as you and Mrs. Hudson were at the ready. Did it not occur to you both that I was well-nourished and a fit specimen—despite my experiments with stimulants to offset boredom—before the two of you came along?"

"Well, we had presumed your life of privilege… ," John shrugged, "… meant not worrying about the next meal. But, here in this restaurant, you actually _prepared_  food…something not just edible but palatable…!"

"Get a grip, John. I've just told you, it's for a case," Launching into an explanation, Sherlock expected to divert the heat from their absurd argument. "Surveillance for the Met… of drug lords enjoying their repasts in this quiet Mayfair location. For the past three months I've been posing as a sous-chef to gather incriminating information."

"That explains why you hadn't answered my 'been up to much?' texts and voice messages," John muttered as an aside. "I presumed it was your typical abhorrence to idle chit chat,...but posing? Actually cooking food for patrons to eat is not posing, Sherlock!"

"Yes. Yes. Of course! It would have been downright suspicious if I hadn't legitimate skills for the task. You know my methods, John. I'm thorough when I'm undercover. My goal is always authenticity."

Sherlock cut off, realizing he had also made several presumptions. John could not have known how he had been utilizing his private time. It had been years since the Watson side of the partnership had "got on with his separate life." Small talk was not their forte, so John would have been completely unaware of Sherlock's culinary training.

To control his racing mind between cases, Sherlock had not always succumbed to the temptations of cocaine or morphine. Even as young man Sherlock had kept clean between investigations by conducting research, refining his skills and learning new ones. Before they had become flat mates, he had warned John of his quirks: violin playing, experiments at all hours of the day or night, long periods of complete silence for thinking. These behaviors, which John had witnessed, were part of the exploration process that kept Sherlock evolving and expanding the scope of his talents. They, along with John's good company, had proven effective alternatives to drug use.

Since John and he were no longer flat mates, however, John was no longer witness to what engaged Sherlock between cases, nor had it occurred to Sherlock to divulge his educational pursuits—culinary arts being one of them—especially if they were not pertinent to the occasional case John and he were investigating.

Unbeknownst to those who knew him as Sherlock Holmes, Scott Williams had trained and mastered—in less time than was usual—the necessary skills to receive his  _Professional Chef Diploma, NVQ_ levels one, two, and three _._  He had passed with flying color the blind tests _—"You have 2.5 hours to prepare gougeres, escargots, gigot a la cuilliere and coeur a la creme"_ —or some such requests prior to his interviews and he has since accepted several temporary jobs as a sous-chef in one-stars throughout London. The result of eleven months of experiences was that Scott Williams' references were impeccable and easily landed him the assignment in the two-star rated restaurant that dovetailed Scott's gifts with Sherlock's case.

"Proof, John? You want proof?" Sherlock rose from his swivel chair and pulled a billfold from the file drawer and handed it to John. Within were the documents authenticating the credentials of Sherlock's current alter-ego, Scott Williams.

John studied the official papers, noting Sherlock's familiar flourishes in the signature despite the different name, and nodded. Having whipped himself into a frenzy with assumptions—assumptions that, based on the evidence in hand, were altogether wrong—John took a moment to decompress. With his doubts dispelled, he handed the documents back. "Sure, I know those are you other names, William Scott...but," John looked askance at his friend and teased, "but, for all I know, you've assumed the identity of another Scott Williams…"

Sherlock recoiled in frustration. His lips tightened in a thin line. He threw John a disheartened look, except, when they locked eyes again, this time amusement shimmered in John's.

"What are the chances, Sherlock," John continued, coughing through a chuckle, "that there is… another chef named Scott Williams?"

"I  _AM_   _this_  Scott Williams, John!" Sherlock thundered. Having kept his identity secret for so long, he was more than pleased to reveal it— especially to John. The pride in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable; so was the hint of delight. "It was the best disguise for my purposes, as it turned out. Worked splendidly," Sherlock spread his arms triumphantly. "Besides, got a decent write-up in the _"Food and Drink/Lifestyle"_ section of the  _London Evening Standard_. Brought in scores of new customers—including your lot tonight—there's more proof, right there!"

Their private discussion was interrupted by persistent knocks on the door. Sherlock came round the desk, squeezed past John and opened the door to the pleasant roar of a lively kitchen where the wait staff, line cooks, and pot washers queued up outside the office.

"Before we all leave, Scott," a food-prep worker began, "we just want to say—" Sherlock closed the door behind him, cutting off the sound and leaving John inside to peer through the window to watch. At first all their faces appeared serious. Only one of them spoke, but quickly they all broke into grins and smiles. Someone handed something to Sherlock—from his angle, John couldn't tell exactly what it was—which made everyone, except Sherlock, laugh. Sherlock maintained a neutral expression, still John recognized in the squint of his friend's eyes that Sherlock was pleased, possibly even moved, by what they had said and done. The workers ended the little presentation by clapping Sherlock on the shoulders and shaking his hand, some more vigorously than others. Waving at their departing chef, they moved off with cheery smiles to finish their closing tasks.

Sherlock did not immediately re-enter the office; he remained outside, leaning against the door, lost in thought. John imagined his friend being puzzled by the ludicrous and sentimental overtures of strangers and was perhaps cataloguing this behavior in his Mind Palace for future reference.  _No, wait. Those were the attributes of the former Sherlock,_  John reminded himself and shook off his less-than-generous thoughts. Maybe this Sherlock—the reformed one— _felt_ something in response and needed to process.

John also needed to process. Intrigued by his brilliant friend's revelation, John struggled with the vision of Sherlock supervising the kitchen staff, managing the day-to-day duties, ordering food and supplies, preparing diners' orders. On second thought, it required a devotion to detail that was not so far afield from Sherlock's usual perfectionist tendencies. It was harder for John to wrap his brain around the idea that Sherlock would willingly subordinate himself to anybody, much less a head chef or 'management,' yet here he was…a sous-chef and apparently good at it. What was more mystifying and impressive, the staff  _appreciated_  him.

 _Who would have guessed this?_ John marveled as he waited for Sherlock to open the door.  _The_ _man had changed in so many ways._

Sherlock's reputation—especially his  _pre-Eurus_ reputation—had been a tarnished one. His arrogance, his cold-hearted, scientific detachment made his pleasures for the chase, his unbridled delight in solving the diabolic puzzles of madmen and criminals seem freakish, inhumane.  _"Will caring about them help save them?"_ Sherlock had argued once when John had needed to remind him that "actual human lives" were at stake. But beneath Sherlock's blatant motivations, John adamantly believed there was a moral core in that heart Sherlock had "been reliably told" he did not have. John believed because he had seen it, mere glimpses at first. Enduring the crucibles of time and circumstances that had tried them both and burnt off façades, John's faith in Sherlock's goodness had been rewarded. The Sherlock Holmes he now knew, his best friend, had changed and demonstrated that he was more willing and able to connect with his human and compassionate side.

What would never change, however, was Sherlock's drive to let nothing deter him from achieving his goals. Acquiring the skills to become a sous-chef was clearly not beyond his genius friend's capabilities. John's skepticism had already crumbled when he saw Sherlock's credentials, but now, the more he thought about what Sherlock had accomplished as a sous chef, the greater the respect he held for his friend—the man who had no limitations **,**  whatever he set his mind to.

_Damn! I've been such an idiot to doubt him! Sherlock had been telling me the truth._

When Sherlock came back into the office, neither mentioned what Sherlock clutched in a hand behind his back— _out of sight, out of mind_ —and picked up their previous discussion as if there had been no interruption. "Let me remind you, John, that my grand reveal as Scott Williams was unintentional...the result of a sequence of accidents...dare I say coincidence? If you had chosen another restaurant, if your  _friends_  had not so enjoyed their meal, they would not have clamored to meet the chef and none of this would have come to light. Tonight's chef just happened to be me...worse luck."

"You're right," John replied contritely. "You're absolutely right!"

Sherlock pulled back in astonishment.

"What was I thinking?" John remarked to himself, but loud enough for Sherlock's benefit. "If Sherlock Holmes needed to be a chef for a case, by God, he would become the  _best_  chef in London! How can anyone compete with that massive intellect and determination?"

Momentarily surprised and shyly pleased at the transformation in John's attitude, Sherlock's smile was broad and genuine. "Truce, John?"

"Of course," John's wry smile was followed by a soft giggle. "So, it's legit! You not only haven't yet poisoned anybody, but you, um, I mean Scott Williams is an accomplished chef...sous-chef… and all this was …um…an undercover operation? You're leaving tonight, then. Why?" He arched his eyebrows with sudden concern. "Has your cover been blown? Are you in danger?"

"No, no, John. I broke the case a month ago, but at the end of the day, I've stayed on an extra month at the owner's request to train my replacement. My signature dishes are quite popular. On balance, I've found this case quite exhilarating. Not much different than preparing experiments—chemistry and physics, after all— but here it's acceptable to use human test subjects." During a brief moment of introspection, Sherlock's eyes gleamed with pride. He turned from John, concealing the item he had been holding behind his back in his trousers' pocket, and unbuttoned his white jacket. After peeling it off, he folded the jacket solemnly over his arm. With a small sigh and a clap of his hands, he snatched up his cap in a tight fist, spun around and opened the office door.

"Come, John!" His happy bellow echoed through the now quiet kitchen as he led the way toward the back door into the alley. Sherlock tossed his uniform jacket and hat into the restaurant's laundry chute, then sorting through the coat rack, he retrieved his suit jacket first. Using his body to block John's view of his gift, he transferred it to the inside breast pocket. Once he hitched his great coat over his shoulders and knotted his scarf, he turned around once more to face his friend. "Your timing is impeccable. We have a case if you choose to join me. Lestrade has something of interest. I could use your insights. Might have texted you about it, but by good fortune, you were dining out tonight. I've already told your childminder to expect you an hour later. This shouldn't take long."

Without waiting for John's reply, Sherlock set the timer for the automatic door lock. He twisted around, gave John an encouraging wink and backed through the door to the alley with a self-satisfied grin. He let it slam behind him.

John paused at the closed door and bowed his head to take stock and think "…if you choose," Sherlock had said. He chuckled softly and followed Sherlock out to the street. Perfectly timed, the automatic lock hummed as the bolt slid into place.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**88**8888**88**

**88**88**

**Author's Note:** Inspired by the following passage from King, Laurie R. _A Monstrous Regiment of Women: A Novel of Suspense Featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes._ St. Martin's Press:

  
"Do you know, Russell," he [Sherlock Holmes] mused, "I once earned an honest living for six entire months as a sous-chef in a two-star restaurant in Montpellier." He shook his head in self-reproach and rattled the dishes off into the cupboard-sized kitchen, leaving me to stare openmouthed at his retreating back.

Never, never would I get his limits.

 **88**8888**88**  
**88**88**

  
In Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Sign of Four_ , Holmes says, "Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in white wines. Watson, you have never yet recognised my merits as a housekeeper."

**88**8888**88**

**Author's Note:** Special thanks to the wisdom and patience of an unnamed friend who guided me in the writing of this short series and gave generously of her culinary expertise. And a nod to englishtutor who is always a cheerful voice urging me on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

888***888

Lestrade's call about the problem case couldn't have come at a better time;  _L'Effet de Serre_  had been nearing closing time, John Watson had still been in the dining room and the "crime scene" was relatively close by cab.

Mindful all evening of John's presence, Sous-chef 'Scott Williams' had kept a low profile. Rather than circulate among the diners to inquire after their satisfaction—as was his usual custom—he had remained in the kitchen preparing the dishes. A dash here, a pinch there, he blended John's favorites spices and herbs with others that would broaden this experience for his friend's palate. Then, from the kitchen doorway or in shadows of the dining hall, Williams listened for the  _oohs_ and  _aahs_  rising from John's table which several times tempted him to reveal his identity. It had taken uncustomary restraint to abide by his initial decision not to enlighten his friend in this very public way. Sherlock had intended to spring the surprise on the unwitting John days, weeks, maybe months from now, and only after he had laid the proper groundwork to maximize John's astonishment. Sherlock always relished and nearly always was satisfied with John's reactions to a great reveal—with one glaring exception.

However, this evening's confluence of a case with John's easy availability was rare, an opportunity that was too good to be missed. Although Sherlock preferred a subtle maneuver to extract John from his dining cohorts, as the maître d' approached him in the kitchen to ask Sous-chef Williams to greet the restaurant patrons, he seized the moment handed to him on the proverbial silver platter.

"Must ring up someone first...it will be brief, Maurice. Then I'll follow you out."

The maître d' gave him a respectful nod and spun on the heel of his polished-leather shoe. The man looked the essence of landed gentry's manservant in his perfectly-tailored suit and went about his duties with dignity and aplomb. Reputation and customer satisfaction were his highest priority. Sherlock had no doubt that Maurice would do his polite best to detain the departing guests since he had promised them an audience with the chef.

Sherlock speed-dialed the Watson's childminder. Despite the late hour, Erika picked up. He knew the young woman recognized his mobile number, but after working a considerable time in the Watson household, Erika seemed inured to Sherlock's disruptions, expecting the inconveniences caused by the famous detective friend of her employer. After Sherlock explained his proposal, without wheedling or cajoling her, she pleasantly agreed to stay extra time with Rosie that evening and rang off.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the kitchen, pleased with how well his plan was falling into place. In the next instant, he shed his satisfied smirk to resume Sous-chef Scott Williams' composure and shoved through the kitchen door.

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It always happened when John least expected it, and each time, John couldn't help snickering at himself for being caught off guard. Sherlock's penchant for heart-stopping surprises was a tendency John could live without. However, being whisked abruptly from his evening plans and motoring in a black cab through London to an incident scene was an exhilaration John lived for and one of the extraordinary benefits of being friends with Sherlock Holmes.

"A string of suspicious deaths, John," Sherlock's face glowed in the light from his mobile as he reviewed the police reports sent by Lestrade. "Four previous victims…discovered in various locations—a loo in a pub, a freestanding guard booth, a wardrobe, and a kiosk workshop in a converted Red Phone Box. In each case, the deceased appears to have fallen asleep, except… each had succumbed by asphyxiation."

Curiosity about the case had at last eclipsed the doctor's astonishment over Sherlock's sous-chef surprise. John focused, his appetite whetted for an adventure, "Hmmm. Connected or coincidence? ...and I know what you think about coincidences. Was there evidence of foul play?"

"That's what makes it most intriguing!" Sherlock continued, reading aloud the comments from the police reports. "None of the previous victims had ligature marks around their necks caused by ropes or cords. Their suffocation was not the result of plastic bags, foreign substances jammed down their throats, or regurgitation and there was no particulate or fluid material in their airways. Nor were drugs or alcohol evident as cause."

"Huh! Sounds like a gas…carbon monoxide poisoning, perhaps?"

"Impressive, John! Your thinking is aligned with the Met's initial suspicions, although equally as faulty. Each of the four victims was found in a poorly ventilated or enclosed space for which an accumulation of carbon monoxide would have swiftly reached lethal levels—resulting in carboxyhemoglobin and methemoglobin—but none of the victims had that tell-tale sign of a cherry-red face, although that too occurs only rarely, and there was no evidence of appliances and engines burning gasoline, wood, propane, charcoal or other fuel nearby to cause those specific toxic fumes. Accidental death caused by CO had been ruled out, especially since the ME determined that oxygen molecules in their blood had been displaced by CO2."

"Carbon  _Di_ oxide!" John laughed his surprise, "But how?"

"Yes! That is the question and the answer has been somewhat elusive. However, there is one tenuous connection among them all—their frequency. Four similar deaths occurring within a short interval of three months has drawn attention and suspicions despite being deemed as accidental. If any of these deaths are related, we need something to connect one death with another, John, and motivation to prove that these are actual homicides!"

The intoxication of Sherlock's enthusiasm made John's head spin; or perhaps it was the aftereffects of his second  _digestif_  following his satisfying dinner. John might have shown more restraint had he been aware a case was afoot, and while a strong coffee or demitasse would have been most helpful, he did his best to overcome the residual lethargy from his overindulgence of food and drink. "And if I'm following your thinking, Sherlock, unless an autopsy of tonight's victim establishes a medical condition for cause, this victim is the fifth to die mysteriously …in his sleep."

"Precisely! Suspicious and mysterious deaths! With no proof of deliberate wrongdoing—"

"—So, it's Christmas, then?" John teased with a soft chuckle.

The headlamps of passing traffic illuminated the smile in Sherlock's eyes, but he waved a dismissive hand and ignored John's quip. "Our case is relatively untampered with even though the constables made a preliminary inspection before calling it in. Lestrade hadn't pulled the previous cases, but he's been asked to investigate this one. Wisely, he's called us tonight before ineptitude causes further contamination. The good DI wants more critical eyes visiting the scene first!"

"You did say this would take no more than an hour, then?" John's voice betrayed skepticism and weariness. Sherlock never forced him to accept an invitation, knowing as he did that the constraints of John's work made time with his daughter precious. Whenever John gave in to the pleasure of the chase with Sherlock Holmes—assured as he was that Rosie was well-tended in his absences—there was always niggling guilt. It was a deep-seated and hard-to-explain emotion of a single parent that only another single parent would understand.

"I assured Erika you would not be detained too long," Sherlock replied. "Our primary purpose is to examine the scene and collect data. Solving the case might require lab work which I expect to enjoy at length in private once you have safely returned home." Sherlock grinned and clapped his gloved hands together, a gesture he commonly used to reset a topic. "I've said often enough that it's a capital mistake to theorize before one has data, John. You see why I'm most eager for firsthand evidence."

"...a trained bloodhound picking out a scent..," Quoting one of his earliest blogs, John darted a canny glance toward his friend.

Acknowledging John's remark with a slight nod, Sherlock turned toward the window, watching the passing night views of the amber-glazed city, but mostly to conceal his satisfied smiled. The essentials of a perfect adventure were in place; a mystery needed solving; the Met was out of their element, and John was on board…yes, it  _was_  Christmas!

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"Asphyxiated," John confirmed about the slumped man behind the drive wheel. "Yeah, sorry, Greg," he said, backing away from the heavyset middle-aged victim and swiveling toward Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock who had been hovering behind him. A swarm of forensic photographers were snapping photos of the three-door MINI hatchback. They weaved among the constables and homicide detectives who were forced to wait until the consulting team of Holmes and Watson had taken first crack at the dead man; the distinct chill of resentment from the police team rivaled the November temperatures.

"Can't smell any alcohol on him," John added, "and while it could have been a seizure, possibly even drugs, from what Sherlock's told me about the previous deaths," he peeled off his latex gloves, "this does look like another one…." Dropping his gaze to his shoes, John hoped Greg hadn't caught his half smile. Lestrade had requested  _his_  opinion, as well, this time—even though it was Sherlock's help the DI had actually requested—and John tried his best to mask his enjoyment at being a part of an active investigation. How often in the past had he scolded Sherlock for showing inappropriate pleasure at a crime scene?

" _Bollocks_!" Greg grimaced, his white teeth reflecting the Met balloon lights that illuminated the space surrounding the slightly tilted car. One tyre had mounted the kerb, as if the vehicle had drifted off the street at a slow speed. "Asphyxiation! Are you sure?"

"Of course, John's sure," Sherlock snapped with unmasked indignation. "Time in domestic obscurity has not dulled Dr. Watson's acumen on medical matters. When your coroner arrives, he or she will confirm it," he added before turning and leaning over the victim to conduct his own examination.

"I'm not disparaging John!" Greg raked a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Just find this  _bloody_ upsetting, is all," he whinged. "If it's death by asphyxiation this will be the fifth such death in three months. Yeah, toxicology will still need to rule out drugs, sedatives or alcohol in the driver's system for cause, but the  _modus operandi_  is just like the others."

"It's peculiar, Greg. I'll grant you that. What do we know about the victim?" John hugged himself against the November evening chill expecting Sherlock—who had just finished his exam—to listen in. Sherlock backed away from the conversation, instead, as if the identity of the man was irrelevant.

"Not much…yet. Geoffrey Atkinson. An ID badge in his wallet suggests he was a lorry driver for a restaurant wholesale-supply company in Barking."

" _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers_ , to be precise," Sherlock said over his shoulder as he headed toward the boot.

"Yeah," Lestrade tried not to look surprised. The victim was wearing a delivery man's uniform jacket that was lacking an obvious insignia. Of course, Sherlock always spotted details others missed, but he could not have seen the badge that had already been bagged. "Okay, give it up. What clued you in, Sherlock?"

"Working!" Sherlock grunted, indicating he was too busy observing, inspecting, and deducing to answer.

"One thing I noticed, Greg," John turned and pointed to the victim. "His fingers. Look here. Two of them, the right index and thumb, show old burns, damage from extreme frostbite. How does a lorry driver get frostbite…?"

"Huh? That didn't happen tonight. It's cold, but not  _that_ cold."

"I agree, Greg. This injury's not recent—it shows evidence of healing. Depending on the severity, he could have sustained it about two or three months ago."

"Wait! That puts it in September or August. How does one get frostbite in mild weather?"

As John and Greg spoke, Sherlock inspected the opened boot's contents—a tyre iron, windscreen washer fluid, assorted rags, heavy gloves, goggles, long metal tongs with serrated edges, a chisel and mallet, along with a heavy insulated ice storage chest. The polyethylene, 50-lb capacity chest with its lid askew. Sherlock arched an inquisitive brow at one of the detectives and gestured toward the chest. "Is this how you found it?"

"Yes, well no. The lid was slightly off, but we slipped it open just enough to get a better look inside," the detective shrugged dismissively; "It was empty."

"Empty you say," Sherlock nodded and pulled out his magnifying lens without touching the ice chest to check the side seams. He lingered over one seam in particular that showed damage. Within the indentation, he spotted a small opening...a rip large enough to breach the integrity of the container.

Still talking to John, Greg shook his head in frustration. "Those others weren't my cases. This one is. The question: is it a homicide?"

"Accidental suicide," came Sherlock's annoyed voice from the boot of the car, then he tucked his magnifying lens in his breast pocket. "Those other cases are indeed murders, though!"

Greg whipped his head toward Sherlock, "Oh, for God's sake! You're not serious?"

Sherlock scowled with displeasure. "How many times have I said that I'd rather solve cases on own my merits and not through the folly of the criminal? Congratulations, Greg," Sherlock hailed mirthlessly. "This one's the latter."

"Seriously, Sherlock?" John reacted. Sherlock's smug assertion seemed premature even to him. They had arrived on the scene less than fifteen minutes earlier. John didn't doubt that Sherlock's keen eye had raked through the scene and focused on details the police had failed to notice, but had the consulting detective already solved the mystery?

"It's your lucky night, Lestrade! You have here your murderer whom, through his own stupidity, has fallen victim to the murder weapon!" Sherlock crowed and faced the team of detectives and his friends, their mouths gawping in stunned surprise. "Don't just stand there. Close your mouths and open your notepads—you'll require them. I've solved your case!"

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock glanced from one astonished face to another and stopped on John's. Once the initial shock of his announcement wore off, several men among the investigative team erupted in protests, but Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's stern look silenced them.

John, Greg, and the group of detectives and constables huddled around the back of the MINI hatchback as Sherlock shared his information. "Exhibit number one: a handwritten list, wedged under the ice chest in the boot—as documented by your forensic photographers—and which bears the names and addresses of your previous victims." He waved a paper in his gloved hand. "It also contains several more names, intended victims likely." Then he slid the dog-eared page into a transparent evidence sleeve and handed it to Lestade.

"Could simplify things," Greg studied the names scribbled on the page and broke into a pleased grin, his first genuine smile of the evening. "Nice going, Sherlock. Not completely incriminating evidence, but...when we compare this to handwriting samples from our victim, that will help. Still, this links the previous victims and gives us something to go on."

" 'f course,  _he_  got first  _fucking_  shot at the boot …." One detective grumbled, but left his complaint hanging.

"So, our  _vic was_ a delivery man...," a second shrugged, huffing in humorless jest. "…with a delivery list …not unexpected, huh?"

A third detective, emboldened by the others, cleared his throat. "So, we have a list. Yeah, it connects the cases, but it doesn't give us motive or means." Keeping his eyes locked on Lestrade, he spoke from the side of his mouth and tilted his head toward Sherlock, "Solved the case, has he? I've been working on those four deaths for three months, now…each scene as clueless as this one…."

 _That, from a clueless idiot!_ Sherlock itched to respond. Instead, he mustered self-restraint and held his tongue.

Lestrade, however, did not hold back. " _Sod this!_ " he snapped, vexed by the resistance from his team. "Clueless doesn't mean no clues; only ones we haven't recognized…" Greg sized up the few outspoken men before turning with annoyance toward the last." Detective Sergeant Grimes, is it? You worked with Dimmesdale? Yeah. I know you.… Listen," the DI leant closer to the insubordinate officer, the volume of his gravelly voice low, but no less authoritative. "While you work for me, I'm in charge! I've called in a  _specialist_. Someone who will help us solve this  _bloody_  case… because that's  _our_  job—to get the  _right_  answers! Egos don't belong here. Is that clear?"

Grimes bowed his head. Several others also studied their shoes.

Lestrade thumbed toward Sherlock. " _His_ is the only ego I will tolerant…because he's got a proven record of being right. But, Sherlock," Greg swiveled his head toward his friend, "tone it down, mate."

Sherlock arched a brow and nodded. Hearing Greg defend him made it easier not only to tone it down but to take the higher road. He turned toward the detectives, "Your points are valid," he told them.

Lestrade's eyes flickered and the detectives looked up.

"This list," Sherlock met their gazes, "doesn't immediately give us motive. That'll require legwork—your experienced legwork—to establish the connection, although I have my suspicions. And yes, Geoffrey Atkinson,  _former_  lorry driver for  _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers_ , a restaurant wholesale-supply company, would likely have had a delivery list in his possession. However, 'said' delivery list would be _in_  a work _lorry_ , not in a private car obviously on loan from 'a friend,'" Sherlock added air quotes, "as he couldn't afford his own. Besides…,"

Sherlock paused. Divulging how much he knew about restaurant business operations could jeopardize his alternate identity, but what Scott Williams also knew about the victim—thanks to the chatter of his kitchen staff—would crack the case wide open. Sherlock decided he need not introduce the "Williams" name to assist in the investigation, especially if he distracted the Met with the facts of the case. He resumed after the barest hesitation, "…if it were a standard-issue list from his restaurant supplier, it would not have been handwritten. The company has digitized their inventory process and now uses smart tablets for their distribution lists."

"Huh!" Greg eyes widened with surprise. "You know this how?"

"I've had some dealings with  _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers,"_ Sherlock disclosed with nonchalance thick as butter. "Truth be told, Atkinson had made deliveries at  _L'Effet de Serre_  restaurant—"

John hid his grin behind his hand, recognizing Sherlock's evasiveness. There was also a certain comfort in discovering he was not the last to know about Sous-chef Scott Williams. Apparently Greg was in the dark.

"Wait! You know the  _vic_?" Greg pulled back, gobsmacked.

Sherlock kept his face neutral, his posture straight and his hands clasped behind his back. "A recent acquaintance. Might I add, a disreputable sort. Failed miserably…in work, in marriage, at life. Quite sad if one actually cares about that sort of thing. Dodgy in business. Always looking to make a quick quid by underhanded dealings of merchandise that usually doesn't belong to him. Associating with him was repugnant. Complaints about his deplorable ethics were logged with his superiors."

" _Blow me!_  You associated with him?" Greg exhaled in disbelief.

"Would prefer, Greg, to discuss these details later…." Sherlock deflected with feigned reluctance, aware that by appearing to withhold information, he was making the DI more inquisitive—exactly the plan. Sherlock's best strategy was to feed Lestrade's curiosity with tantalizing bits of everything the Met needed to know, drawing out the process until the one bit of information—that he was known as Scott Williams at the restaurant, not Sherlock Holmes—would be unnecessary.

"Nah, Sherlock. I've cut you enough slack. You owe me answers  _now_. Explain what you mean by associated with him."

"Not really associated," Sherlock deadpanned. "I oversaw the deliveries from him—"

"—Why would  _you_  be receiving deliveries…?" Eyes narrowed on Sherlock, Lestrade seemed both frustrated and worried. "Deliveries of what?"

"When I say ' _I_ ,' I mean the restaurant…," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh…You mean food deliveries…. Takeaway?" Greg struggled to understand.

"No! Not takeaway. Supplies, Greg…." Lestrade's curiosity was clearly a pesky housefly that Sherlock kept swatting away. "…For the restaurant….," he finished.

"What restaurant?" Greg persisted, the volume of his voice swelling with exasperation.

"Sherlock just told you _. L'Effet de Serre,_ " John chimed in. "I was just there tonight. Fantastic cuisine! You should meet the chef, Greg…sous-chef, I mean, a good man—" He swallowed a chuckle and threw a tickled squint toward Sherlock.

Sherlock darted a sharp look toward John that barely acknowledged his friend's amusement. He leant in closer to Lestrade and spoke quietly, "Listen, Greg…," he began, having no illusions of privacy, "..there was an investigation for MI5…a drugs case. I assumed a supervisory role at  _L'Effet de Serre._ Logged in the deliveries from a variety of suppliers, including  _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers_. Our paths crossed… Geoffrey Atkinson's and mine _—"_

"—You, Sherlock? In a supervisory role? " Greg exclaimed in shocked surprise.

"Prefer you keep this relatively quiet, Greg," Sherlock glanced around, aware that all the detectives were listening. Some were smiling. "It was, after all, an undercover operation. I might be called back again…."

Greg scrubbed down his face, but could not smooth out his baffled expression. "In a  _bloody_ restaurant? You're not serious!  _Supervisor?_ At least you weren't a cook! That, I'd never believe."

Sherlock ignored John's sudden cough. "That's of no matter right now, Greg," Sherlock rolled his shoulders to reclaim a dignified stance. "In this capacity, I observed the man known as The Nick; he was a self-entitled sort who pilfered what he believed he deserved."

Sous-chef Scott Williams had the responsibility of checking routine deliveries, but the delivery man from  _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers_ stood out for many reasons. Atkinson's body stench from his sweaty labors notwithstanding, it was the groans and mumbled profanities by his staff at the initial sight of the man that were most telling. They loathed him and it didn't take a genius detective to figure out why. Among other things, the obnoxiously unprofessional git liked stealing into the kitchen, in strict violation of culinary protocol, and helping himself to samples. He took advantage of the busiest periods, when the cook staff's guard was down, to snatch chips or food from the workstations, tainting the prepared dishes that had been ready to be picked up by the servers. The food was binned, unfit for the patrons, while Atkinson backed out of kitchen, his open mouth full of some stolen morsel, taunting them with his laughter as he fled the scene, leaving behind his rank body odor. "Bloody Bastard!" "Wanna throttle him!" "Hope he chokes to death!" the riled staff railed with raised fists.

However, Sous-chef Williams put a permanent stop to Atkinson's nuisance pranks with his curt complaints to  _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers_. The delivery man was put on probation. When he next appeared on his route, he seemed subdued, cooperative, until the chef-disguised detective observed that those sticky fingers were in bigger pots.

"It became obvious, Lestrade that the merchandise Atkinson was carrying—rice, flour, sugar, potatoes, greengroceries, fish and meats packed in dry ice—was questionable. The weights and measures of these items began coming up short. It was suspected he was snatching a bit off the top for his own resale purposes. Well, you can imagine it being a beastly mess, especially as one particularly observant chef reported him to his superiors providing irrefutable proof, whereby he was sacked…The real shame? He wasn't good at criminal activity. Couldn't keep up a successful scam for the life of him. Lost more than he gained…and now this."

"You mean he made enemies?" Greg narrowed his eyes in clarification.

"And harbored harsh resentments…against those he perceived as enemies…"

"You're quite sure he wasn't murdered, then?"

"I'm quite sure he was an idiot…and yes, that he did this to himself," Sherlock insisted with dwindling patience. "Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. I mean there's a certain justice in how he died, and as I've said before, it was a stupid accident. However, I am pleased to say, the claims that there's neither means nor motive is inaccurate. Ah, Lestrade, you were wise to call me in tonight. Had you not, I suspect that the means by which he committed both murder and his unfortunate suicide would have been in great danger or being overlooked, even though the weapon is obvious—"

Several of the homicide detectives muttered, again stung by Sherlock's blatant arrogance.

"Ahhh—perhaps I've misspoken," Sherlock acknowledged their displeasure and gestured for them to have a look. "Go on. What can you tell me about the murder weapon? It's in plain sight in the boot."

Lestrade's detectives all turned their eyes in unison. The hatch light and strong balloon lights illuminated the contents with surreal brilliance, but the so-called weapon "in plain sight" did not immediately reveal itself. They stood peering at the jumble of disparate tools, the ice chest, rags, several tattered jackets, and assorted plastic and paper bags that were used but empty and mumbled among themselves.

"We need a bit more time!" one finally complained looking beyond Sherlock to his DI. "Especially if we have to sort through all this stuff…."

"By all means," Sherlock retreated a distance away to rejoin John. Despite the additional time, it didn't go as well as the detectives might have hoped. They sifted through a few things when one said. "Wait. It has somet'n' to do wit t' ice chest…" He turned to his associates. "Holmes inspected the ice chest."

"But it's empty." Another argued. "It was empty before he checked it."

With his arms crossed and his fingers drumming on his elbows, Sherlock grew more restive with their continued cluelessness. He suppressed a moan of frustration and appealed to Greg. "What if I told them it disappeared from the ice chest?"

"You just said the murder weapon was in the boot? What do you mean it disappeared?" Grimes scowled.

"Hold off, now. Stop it!" Greg commanded, vexed by his team's confusion. They were becoming progressively more flustered. "No more of this. Get to the point, Sherlock! Nobody likes a know-it-all."

Sherlock was just as eager as Lestrade to put them out of their misery—caused by their ignorance—and stepped forward. "The murder weapon was  _in_ the ice chest _—dry_  ice," he cut a glance toward John observing that his friend had made the connection before the others, "... a solid form of carbon dioxide typically used to preserve food—until it sublimated into carbon dioxide gas."

"Dry Ice?" Greg voiced everyone's surprise.

"We have convincing evidence that he worked with dry ice. Dr. Watson astutely remarked about the burn scars on Atkinson's fingers as being frostbite burns. Dry ice's so cold it causes immediate frost bite to raw skin and is dangerous to handle."

"Okay. I see," Greg puzzled slowly. "Explains the frostbite. Handling dry ice requires proper gear though, y'd think he'd have used ….?"

"Exactly. You'd  _think!_  Although he was many things, including crafty and revolting, Geoffrey Atkinson was not a clear-thinking man, Greg. Only an idiot would mishandle dry ice! Must give him credit for _learning_  to use the gear, however. See, it's here in this boot—gloves and tongs, a mallet—learn he did before his continued mishandling would've cost his fingers in the process."

"The victims didn't die of frostbite—not even this one tonight," was Grimes' snide remark.

"Didn't say they died of frostbite. Cold's not the only thing that's harmful in this case," Sherlock repeated more slowly as if speaking to an inattentive child. "It's the carbon dioxide gas that sublimated."

"—Don't give me that. It's what they use in fog machines! I've put my face in one of those plenty of times. Didn't kill me."

Sherlock bit his lip to prevent himself blurting,  _Not you, but_ _clearly_ _some brain cells!_

"The ice fog you're talking about," John stepped up when he recognized Sherlock's frustration in the taut compression of his lips, " _is_ harmless. It's mixed with water and used in a generally well-ventilated area. But dry ice can be as lethal as carbon monoxide when it displaces normal air."

"Carbon dioxide," Sherlock swallowed his biting sarcasm to attempt a cooperative tone with the detectives, "goes directly from ice to gas form when exposed to the air. Pure carbon dioxide in poorly vented, small enclosures causes asphyxiation."

"Tight quarters…Like where the other victims were found…,"Greg rubbed his jaw as he considered Sherlock's explanation.

Several homicide detectives nodded their heads as the realization dawned. "Actually, that's pretty ingenious…" one of them remarked.

"Not really," Sherlock contradicted in a flat voice. "It's a well-documented use for dry ice. Everyone working in the food industry remembers when  _Rat Ice_  made big news six months ago," Sherlock continued, encouraged by the glimmer of understanding he saw in the Met detectives. "Dry ice under this name is an approved rodenticide in New York City and considered a humane form of pest control. Once the pure carbon dioxide in ice form is shoved down the rat holes and sealed up to prevent their escape, it 'melts,' displacing the oxygen and suffocating the rats inside their holes. It leaves no poisons or toxins in the environment. Even so, it stirred up a heated debated among animal right activists who claimed rats can feel pain, suffering and anxiety prior to death. Ironically _, that's_  what made it world news."

"The loo, the guard booth, the wardrobe, the phone box …this car!" John listed the sites where the asphyxiations had occurred. "Brilliant! It fits…they're all small spaces!"

Satisfied that he had convinced the majority of his listeners, Sherlock cited more facts to support his position. "In the States, four coolers full of dry ice in a well-sealed car were responsible for a woman's death. She was transporting ice cream to the market and succumbed to the gas. To my knowledge, that was a tragic accident. I don't know of any cases in which dry ice was deliberately used as a murder weapon …. Or maybe it has been and we've never had proof until now."

"So you think the murder weapon was …?" perpetually slow on the uptake, Grimes' forehead creased in genuine frustration and irritation with both his DI and the 'great detective.'

"…dry ice," Sherlock stated with finality, "which Atkinson had free access to by means of his restaurant supplier—apparently despite being dismissed—and which he had become adept at handling. We've got proof tonight that this was his weapon of choice."

"Proof? The chest is empty!" Grimes challenged. "How do can you be sure  _what_  was in it?"

"Exhibit number two," Sherlock reached into the boot and pulled out one of several large brown paper bags and showed everyone the printing on the bag:  _Dry Ice Handle With Caution_. "Labeled already for your convenience along with the appropriate tools to prevent frostbite. See, the long tongs, the mallet, the masks, and heavy gloves. Except, despite his precautions, dry ice was his undoing. The ice chest is cracked at the seam and did not properly contain the fumes. With the windows on the car shut to keep the cold November air out, The Nick was overcome in the close quarters of this MINI hatchback."

"Means established," Greg agreed, "But we still don't know why he did it."

Since the DI's earlier warning, Sherlock had been mindful—as best he could be—about his condescending and general rudeness, but Greg's statement triggered Sherlock's smirk. "This's indeed your lucky day, Lestrade! Geoffrey Atkinson was the missing piece to this asphyxiation puzzle. And each of his victims—those people on the list—had had some dealings with this man. Knowing this is sure to help your lot determine why he chose his victims." Sherlock struggled to hold back a broad grin, "I know several worthwhile leads about the murderer that will connect the dots for you. It shouldn't take long for your detectives to get to the bottom of it!"

"Fire away!" Greg folded his arms and tilted his head. His investigative team flipped to another page of their notebooks in readiness. Amazed, John looked up from his wristwatch and grinned at their sudden and humble compliance.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

"The first man to die, forty-two-year-old Roger Nettles, the one found dead in the loo at the  _Whet Whistle_   _Pub…_ ," Sherlock's spellbound audience of Met investigators drew in closer around the MINI's boot to listen. The November night chill was visible in the puffs of condensation from their mouths and nostrils, but no one complained. All were lured by the seduction of answers. "…was Atkinson's  _alleged_  accomplice in many small capers and tasteless pranks. The Nick and The Net, they called themselves, except many referred to the pair as The Nitwits. They were often seen in the  _Whet Whistle_ , scheming, making a general nuisance of themselves, all the while getting completely hammered."

"I know the  _Whet Whistle_ ," a detected raised his head from his notepad. "Nice old pub, small place, though. No room for troublemakers. They usually have to take their differences outside…."

"And  _outside_ , witnesses say, was where the heated bickering between The Nitwits became destructive," Sherlock segued. "They exchanged serious blows, needed to be separated. With their allegiance soured—as with most petty thieves—rampant mistrust replaced whatever 'trust' there was between them."

"Now, wait! Roger Nettles' death was considered unrelated to the brawl he had several weeks earlier outside the  _Whistle_ ," Grimes objected. "Besides, Atkinson kept to his side of the pub that evening, small as it was. Witnesses swear he neither talked to Nettles nor laid a hand on him that night." Grimes shrugged, "Roger Nettles was a low life; his death, presumed due to excesses—the drink certainly—and general poor health, result of natural causes." Grimes dropped his gaze to his shoes and muttered, "His was no great loss to anyone."

"Except Nettles' death was engineered by Atkinson who fixated on redressing perceived wrongdoing against him. The subtlety of the deed—compared to the blatant hostility of weeks before—kept the police from looking his way."

"If all this wasn't coming from you, I'd consider it mere gossip and hearsay," Greg interjected.

Several of the detectives traded sly smiles of agreement.

"Granted, Sherlock," Lestrade continued, "you'd come by this information merely by observing a bloke's finger nails, but you know we're going to need actual evidence for the Crown Prosecutor."

"And I'll remind you, I've had some dealings with this loathsome man."

"So you've said, Sherlock," Greg stated, "as a restaurant supervisor… logging in the deliveries ….I'm paying attention."

"Wait!" John pursed his lips in worry, "Is your name on the list, Sherlock?"

"Don't see it, John," Greg read the page in the plastic sleeve. "Sherlock didn't make Atkinson's list of victims. Still, I'm curious what the exact dealings you had with this man, Sherlock."

"All in good time, Lestrade," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, ignoring John's concern and Lestrade's remarks with the same gesture, "I can procure testimony from several reliable sources to corroborate this information about Atkinson's schemes. However, you must admit that with motive established, means is easy to explain. The pub's loo was a single room, so cramped that one's business was all one might do in it. The police report says,  _'It had a _small window that had been deliberately jammed closed from the outside__.' And where was this window, DS Grimes?"

"The… back alley," Grimes seemed reluctant to support Sherlock's premise. "Yeah, okay. True. It was tucked way back, in the darkest section…"

"Indeed. I put to you this scenario: the Nick and the Net were pissed and pissed off…likely at the same time. Given Atkinson's motive and means, he waited and watched until Nettles got smashed as usual and tottered to the loo, a place in which he quite often lingered, much to the frustration of others pounding on the door needing to answer the call of nature. Meantime, Atkinson scuttled to the alley, where outside the loo he had hidden the few items he needed, including the ice chest and a step stool. It may be a stretch to prove that he had strategically placed the filled cooler in the alley ahead of time—although dry ice when properly stored in a cooler will last for nearly twenty-four hours. Yet, I don't see how it could've been accidental, so we must assume that this act had been premeditated. Until the night of Nettles' death, the window had been unlocked from within…"

"The landlord admitted he meant to fix the broken lock on the window," Grimes remarked.

"Admirable of him, except it's been that way for five years according to the regulars," Sherlock scoffed before continuing. "Through this window, Atkinson tipped the full load of dry ice with Nettles inside. Perhaps Nettles was startled to see ice come through the window. While slower witted in his drunken state, he may also have been unaware of its deadly properties or he could have easily escaped…unless of course he was preoccupied with other matters…Even so, the sedating effects of carbon dioxide are swift."

"All right! See your point," Greg scratched his head and sighed, exhaling a large plume of condensation.

"Sorry, sir, but…" a detective coughed to hide his hesitation.

"What is it, Thompson?"

"…Not sure we'll be able to find much evidence of fingerprints or dry ice at the scene," Thompson continued. "It's been three months."

"Well, Atkinson had to have been wearing his gloves," John reminded them.

"That's right!" Greg picked up on John's suggestion. "Now that we know what we're looking for, we can take a closer look at the evidence we collected. Several threads, snagged on the window frame when it was wedged shut, remained unexplained. We might be able to match them to Atkinson's insulated gloves."

Sherlock gave them an approving half-smile.

"Okay, Mr. Holmes. So what about the second victim, Henry Warwick, the man in the guard booth?" Thompson asked, admiration building with each of Sherlock's explanations.

"Fifty-seven-year-old Henry Warwick was a night watchman for several warehouses in the immediate district. The police report listed  _Fife Trading, Simon Rainbow Creamery, Wharton Wares_ , along with…," Sherlock paused for effect, " _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers._ Do you remember them, Grimes?"

Grimes nodded without comment while patting his hands together for warmth.

 _"_ I told you earlier, Atkinson's supplier was  _Barking Rippleworks Wholesalers._ Before he was sacked, Atkinson would fill his lorry daily with supplies at their warehouse and leave by the delivery-gate checkpoint where the guard on duty would raise the gate to let him through. So Warwick and Atkinson knew each other on the job and off….where they were seen together at various local pubs, especially after Atkinson was let go. They had a more secretive association than what Atkinson was like with Nettles. Only once were they overheard raising their voices. Atkinson was taunting Warwick about 'falling asleep on the job.'"

"C'mon now, Sherlock, how do you know this?" Greg insisted. "You must've been following him."

"I didn't need to follow him. I had my network of observers. All will be clear in a moment, Lestrade, I promise, but back to the facts of the case: The timing of Warwick's demise coincides with a break-in at one of the dry goods warehouses. The ice house, a section of which stores dry ice, was also raided. Again, am I correct, Grimes?"

"''f course you are!" Grime muttered, his face flushed with annoyance at being singled out.

"There was no sign of struggle or evidence to suggest he had been murdered, this according to the police report you sent me, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "It also states that Warwick's death left the warehouse vulnerable for several hours during which there was a burglary that same night. At the time it was deemed an unfortunate coincidence." Sherlock did not have to ask this time, he merely looked over for confirmation.

"Yeah," Grimes mumbled, "and the CCTV cameras were out."

"However, when he drew this night shift rotation, Warwick was not in the wrong place at the wrong time," Sherlock said. "Atkinson was counting on him being there. Familiar both with the layout of the warehouse and with Warwick's weakness—that he often kipped on the job, the foolishness of betraying a confidence to a schemer—Atkinson skulked about for merchandise after giving the man who could otherwise identify him a dose of carbon dioxide. Again, the Met will need to do the legwork to connect the evidence with coincidence. You may have your job cut out for you, but I suggest you visit  _The Halfpenny Pub_  and the  _Dingey Dog_  for witnesses."

"So far, these are just theories!" Grimes remonstrated, "You're very persuasive, Mr. Holmes, with your logic and all, but for all we know, your jamming square pegs into round holes."

"So it appears," Sherlock agreed. "Didn't I just say this very same thing to you earlier this evening, John, about theorizing before one has data? Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. This comment of yours, Grimes, is perhaps the most intelligence you've demonstrated thus far!"

Grimes grimaced at the backhanded compliment.

"But I _have_  aligned the pegs and holes correctly, as you shall see. I understand that separately, each of these police reports seemed unrelated, lacking cohesion. However, knowing the murderer as I did, I could not but recognize that these cases came together with Atkinson as the locus, the arrogant blowhard at the center of this mystery. As none of you gentlemen—except you, Grimes, in the Nettles case—had the privilege of meeting him in person, I cannot fault you for failing to make the connection. Fortunately, you have me!"

"Talk about arrogant blowhard…" someone muttered, intending it to be heard.

"Grimes," Lestrade warned. "When Sherlock Holmes shares his theories, it's best to shut your trap and listen."

"How 'bout bit of modesty, then?" Grimes muttered.

"I say things as they are," Sherlock replied, unperturbed by the DS's rebuke. "It's not arrogance. It's the truth. And modesty that is false is of no use to anyone. To underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers."

Sherlock met the stares of his listeners with his customary confidence. "As for the series of so-called 'unrelated' asphyxiations, I have it on reliable sources that when Atkinson was not sneaking around—a rat searching for morsels—he ranted on and on and volubly about the resentments he harbored against certain people in his life—people on that list." Sherlock waved toward the page in Lestrade's hand. " I can put you in touch with several witnesses who heard him malign his 'mates,' his drinking chums, disparaging them behind their backs with mean-spirited comments. Atkinson used his manic rage—which escalated after he became unemployed—to bully and frighten people.  _L'Effet_ kitchen staff and servers admitted to me they were afraid to cross his path. They also reported that he threatened meee….mbers of the restaurant...various chefs."

John hitched a breath. "You?" Only Sherlock heard the soft whisper. He knew better than to glance John's way and see the unnecessary worry in his friend's frown.

"Yeah, but did you hear him talking about  _killing_  his victims?" Greg pushed.

"Sadly, not directly. And my personal association with him was limited, so I missed that he was actually plotting murders—literally to 'ice' his victims—or I would certainly have stopped it. What I heard directly was the narrative of his offensive behavior from the restaurant staff venting their frustrations. They'd regale each other with tales, kitchen talk, common gossip. But so long as they remained on task while they traded stories, there was no need to silence them. Most of what they repeated was outlandish, empty threats, the posturing of a pathetic and impotent individual."

Sherlock paused and looked briefly down at his hands, his lips twisted in disappointment. "I fear I'm at fault for presuming that their complaint-laded banter was mostly hyperbole stirred by vexation. Had I believed their anecdotes about Atkinson's behavior were rooted in truth and not storytelling for its own sake, perhaps I would not have underestimated the lengths to which he would go to seek vengeance. Realizing all this now, I see I was wrong to dismiss their talk as hearsay."

"Do my ears deceive me?" Grimes muttered behind a wide grin. "Sherlock  _fucking_  Holmes admitting he was wrong?"

John balled his fists. It was his protective impulse whenever Sherlock was maligned, but Greg delivered the figurative "punch" with both his withering glare at Grimes and pointed rebuttal, "A great man admits when he's wrong. Something you haven't learnt yet, apparently."

"What do you know, Mr. Holmes, about the seventy-three-year-old woman, Alice Hastings?" Thompson brought the discussion back on topic. "She was found asphyxiated in a wardrobe a month ago."

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

Greg's face fell. Several detectives chuckled. "Don't have all the answers, now do he?" one said.

"She lived in ninety-nine Derby Row, Barking…the landlady…" Grimes grinned, feeling smug with his exclusive knowledge. "Mrs. Hastings had just let a room. Her friends and neighbors informed me that she always fussed with organizing her linens in the wardrobe when she was expecting a new tenant. Her other tenants told me that they were glad when she finally put out their worst nightmare—the tenant from hell, to hear 'em tell it—but it took her months. After a final row, she kicked him out of the flat, but neglected to take back the keys. That's why she'd called a locksmith. It was him who found her in the wardrobe, the locksmith, I mean."

"Do we know the name of the man she had a row with? The one she evicted?" John wondered, showing he recognized the behavior pattern that had begun to define Geoffrey Atkinson.

The implications were not lost on Grimes; he grimaced. "We'll have to check her tenancy records for that. There was no suspicion of foul play. She was old. She suffered from high blood pressure and palpitations that she claimed, often enough, were brought on by the worries of a landlady. With her ongoing medical conditions and with no other causes, the exertion of cleaning the wardrobe was explanation enough; so we hadn't bothered…"

"You see, Lestrade," Sherlock turned toward the DI, "I knew nothing about Alice Hastings, except ninety-nine D-flat, Derby Row, Barking was the address of Geoffrey Atkinson, well, until he was put out, that is," Sherlock smiled to himself. "Five weeks ago, he reportedly had heavy sessions in the pub—bingeing on ten pints, six shots and a 35cl bottle of vodka each night, if you believe the barmaid —promising a handsome sum to anyone who'd wreck the landlady's flat. He waved his key over his head and repeated the address, making a drinking song out of it …" Sherlock briefly sang the ditty, conducting with one hand the catchy melody of  _Mademoiselle from Armentières_.

_"Yeah,…Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine; Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine, 'nd hit the bitch in old Baaaa…hhkin! She deserves a guud fukin' —cause she's been fukin' outta line!_

_Yeah,…Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine; Get y'rself to Derby Row, Ninety-nine, 'nd kick that bitch out-ta Baaaa…hhkin! She deserves a guud fukin' —'And all will fukin' then be fine!"_

"Utter  _Dick_ head!" Greg spat. "God awful!"

"That the man was legless may account for the pitiful lyrics even though he used a familiar tune," Sherlock smiled crookedly. "For days afterwards, the  _L'Effet_  restaurant staff were singing it in the kitchen, they couldn't shake the melody. Now, is it possible that someone took him up on his promise? Maybe, but before investigating that angle, it would be best to check whether he still has the key somewhere on his person…"

"How does it all tie in with the final victim, then?" Thompson asked when no one else seemed willing to talk, "Found dead a week ago in a Red Phone Box Kiosk. Twenty-eight-year-old Giles Hendrickson?"

"Ah, an enterprising sort and tech savvy," Sherlock's gaze shifted, his keen eyes hooded by his eyelids. "I was intrigued by his business acumen from the first. He had let a converted Red Phone-Box for his trade—mobile phone repairs—in a prime location near several Michelin two-star restaurants…his customer traffic was steady… He commanded a wealth of information regarding the technology and was a reliable authority. We conversed frequently, but the last we spoke was nearly a fortnight ago."

Peering beyond the team of investigators, Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts. Only John noted the subtle shift in his friend's body language: Sherlock harbored some misgivings, but John could only guess why. Was he blaming himself for not foreseeing Hendrickson's danger?

"Hendrickson told me he was closing shop to go on holiday," Sherlock continued in a neutral tone. "Seeing his name first on the police reports you sent me this evening, Lestrade, and again on the handwritten paper you hold tonight as evidence was unexpected..."

Sherlock's forthright delivery and impassive face did not betray his sentiments to the others, but John understood; Sherlock respected Hendrickson and deemed the death of the young man with a promising future a significant loss.

"Hendrickson's association with Atkinson remains unclear," Sherlock admitted. "However, a Red Phone Box is small space and mobile phones are desirable merchandise. It may not be too difficult to identify stolen mobiles. Behind the driver's seat, there is a small box of them on the floor of this car. If Atkinson was escalating to serial status with his secret weapon, it is fortunate that he stopped himself tonight before others on his list were surprised."

An admiring silence settled over John, Lestrade, and his men, except for Thompson, who exclaimed, "Good God! It's all  _bloody_  fits!"

"Oh, one other thing, Lestrade," Sherlock added in complete seriousness, "I should prefer that you do not mention my name at all in connection with this case, as I choose to be associated only with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution."

"Yeah, well, tell that to your blogger," Greg winked at John before he turned to address his team, "We've got work to do." The DI took his men aside and organized his investigators to pursue the various avenues Sherlock had opened for them. They sounded enthused and hopeful about solving the mysteries of the asphyxiation cases.

From a distance Sherlock listened to their exchanges until John's soft chuckles refocused his attention. "What, John?"

John's back had been turned, his shoulders hunched and shaking in muffled laughter. It took him a moment to collect himself. "You know," he blew out a sigh and tapped his wrist watch, "You solved all those cases and gave your statement in less than forty-five minutes…?" He met Sherlock's puzzled expression with his a wide grin.

"I told you it shouldn't have taken more than an hour."

"I know. But you originally said you expected to collect some data for this one case and take it back to the lab…implying that we wouldn't be on the scene for more than an hour, but that you would solve it after some analysis. This, tonight," John gestured to the nearby crime scene, "was amazing. When did you know you were going to solve this case…okay  _all_  the cases… on the spot?"

"It was evident once I saw the victim. Then, all the stories and information I'd been gathering, quite without realizing it, coalesced with such clarity…" Sherlock sudden grin mirrored John's. "I nearly hooted with delight when I recognized Atkinson—however you've always chided me for appearing happy about a murder—so I held my peace until I could ascertain the murder weapon and verify what I knew. Once I understood the contents of the handwritten list, it was just a matter of convincing the densest minds among the investigators."

"Yeah, Sherlock. I know we're all dense when it comes to your brilliance, but you didn't fool me. You nearly admitted you were one of Atkinson's targets…"

"Sherlock's not on the list, John, I told you that before," Greg had approached them in time to overhear John's last statement and lifted the page in the plastic sleeve. "Yeah. But these three blokes—Dan Loughlin, Herb Malden, and Scott Williams—are going to feel quite lucky."

"Wait, G…G…Greg?" John stammered, "Scott Williams was on that list?"

"Yeah! D'ya know him?" Greg frowned, puzzled at John's obvious dismay.

"Maybe..." John glanced at Sherlock. "There  _could_  be several Scott Williams. What's his address?"

Greg read off a street address, unaware it was not a residence, but the location of  _L'Effet de Serre_  restaurant. John frowned while Sherlock's brow arched in feigned surprise.

"I knew it," John said with a fierce scowl at his friend. "You knew it, too! You read the names earlier this evening!"

"Don't worry, John," Greg assured him, surprised by their reactions. "We'll be speaking to everyone on this list."

"No need to talk to Scott Williams," Sherlock offered John a conciliatory smile, "He's already aware."

Greg skewered both his friends with a shrewd look. "Okay, cough it up, Sher—?" but his trilling mobile interrupted him. A glimpse at the phone number diverted his attention. "It's the Superintendent…gotta take it, but we'll get back to this, later…. At the Yard, tomorrow!" he ordered and hurried off.

88**88

_More to follow_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Moments after Chapter 4..._

Their consultation done, Sherlock and John passed beyond the yellow caution tape and walked in silence under the glow of street lamps toward the more populated areas. Despite intending to hail a cab, they let numerous taxis pass without flagging one. There was between them an unspoken but mutual desire to appreciate—unrushed—the aftermath of the case's conclusion.

After several blocks John was the first to break the silence. "Don't remember hearing anything about you going undercover in a restaurant."

"Of course not; it was undercover."

John looked askance at his friend. "Hmmm. And I'm trying to remember when we last spoke—three months, was it? Guess it must be… we weren't discussing a case, were we?"

"The nineteenth of August, half four in the afternoon, you rang and subjected me to your nonsensical amenities—"

"You mean like, 'Hello…How's it going?'"

" _That!_ " Sherlock nodded, "Abhor the small talk! But on this particular day, we also discussed several topics of interest. A mortuary report of Oscar Glynn you had reviewed and which stimulated your curiosity…a recent study regarding the effects of CRISPR/Cas9 gene editing causing greater genetic damage in cells than was previously thought…and my latest lab analysis of —"

"—Enough, Sherlock!" John stopped mid-stride, tossing up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

"There's more, John," Sherlock turned around at this and walked back several paces, still talking. "You did give me an insightful progress report about your remarkable daughter."

"I get it. So you remember!" John chuckled. "You have your Mind Palace to store whatever you decide is important... Why  _that_  particular conversation would clutter it up, I can't fathom—"

"Precisely because it was our  _last._  Future conversations will overwrite the content and timestamp of the current one, unless you've said something particularly important I would need to file elsewhere."

"Huh? Most of what I say isn't worth remembering, is that it?"

"That's true about nearly everyone, John," Sherlock admitted, "but, I retain the data you provide about Rosie."

Facing each other now, John studied his friend, recognizing satisfaction in the relaxed set of Sherlock's brows. But John could not completely congratulate Sherlock on his success without addressing a niggling concern, "Look, this case has me thinking. The nutter Atkinson was dangerous and it was evident if he had not been a cock-up tonight by topping himself, you were a target and possibly might have become one of his victims."

"Just being alive puts in one danger of dying, John. It's inevitable," Sherlock said philosophically.

"That's not what I mean…" John licked his lips, not wanting to be silenced by Sherlock's blasé comeback. "I know you know what I'm saying. That cramped little office at  _L'Effet de Serre_ , where you probably spent lots of overtime alone, was the perfect scene for murder, given this particular murder weapon." John watched several cars pass before continuing, "I wouldn't have…um,... have been aware of your predicament...or been able to help you."

"The situation did not warrant rescue, John, as the threat did not materialize," Sherlock stated, adding in a softer voice, "As much as I prefer you company, I do not  _require_  you involve yourself every time I'm in confrontation with the criminal classes."

"Require?" John tucked his tongue inside one cheek, registering Sherlock's emphasis of the word. True. No one could predict the calamities that might befall Sherlock in his line of work. Yet John felt accountable, yes, even responsible, were Sherlock to be harmed or killed—especially if Sherlock's odds at survival  _required_  someone to have been by his side.

Sherlock caught the objection in the hurt expression that passed over John's face. His sole aim had been to spare John from self-recrimination or remorse—such that John had endured during Sherlock's two-year mission when he had been presumed dead—and which John was intimating now by his concern over the asphyxiation cases. They both needed to accept that circumstances might arise where John's trustworthy assistance and protection were inaccessible. "Danger is part of my trade, John," Sherlock exhaled. "It's a fact. But this danger need not be yours."

"It's not a matter of requiring…," John cleared his voice and leant in closer to Sherlock, "It's my… privilege."

There it was: the very characteristic that set John Watson apart, his unswerving commitment and willingness to run into danger—" _I say dangerous, and here you are."_

It had been that way since the beginning. During the relatively short period—of approximately eighteen months—in which they were flatmates, they had shared curiosity and courage that forged their extraordinary friendship. And despite the changes in their personal lives caused by time, tragedy, obligations, and distance, the singular connection between them endured. Sherlock could not have found a better man to face danger side-by-side with him—a man of moral courage and fortitude, his wise and loyal friend. John's indefatigable determination to protect and serve—his family, his friends, his patients, his nation—was at the forefront of his every courageous act. Yet, sometimes the lines of devotion and allegiance blurred for John—as they were doing now—but Sherlock never questioned what they both clearly knew—Rosie Watson, the daughter John loved above all else, always came first.

Sherlock gave John a solemn nod. He understood John's quandary. So many times he had thought to recruit John on a case, but it was his own reluctance to put the father of a small child in danger which prevented Sherlock from asking. Lately he had stopped altogether, even for the lesser cases that presented only mild inconveniences…until tonight, when John's presence in the restaurant was an opportunity Sherlock seized.

Silent for several beats, John stood at parade-rest, his frowning gaze flickering and following the passing cars. "Sherlock," he said at last, "I'm aware of my responsibilities to Rosie—"

"—As am I," Sherlock interrupted, "of your responsibilities…to Rosie."

John blinked several times before his gaze shifted inward, "Of course you are…yes, of course."

They stood quietly for a moment looking everywhere but at each other, until Sherlock quoted:  _"'It is a wise father that knows his own child.'"_  He paused and thought for a moment longer before adding, "and ' _it takes courage to raise one_.'''

"Shakespeare?" John nodded in recognition of the first quote and sorted through his personal repertoire of famous quotes to identify the second.

To John's unasked question, Sherlock nodded, "...Barack Obama…."

"Researching obscure quotes about fatherhood, I see," John chuckled to mask his surprise.

"But I didn't have to look far to find the inspiration for both."

Warmed by Sherlock's endorsement, John's smile melted into a gratified grin. "I know, this little adventure wasn't dangerous, but still,  _'Come at once if convenient—if inconvenient come all the same!'_ is not something I'd ignore."

Sherlock bowed his head and looked at his hands. "Will keep that in mind, John." His voice was pleased.

"That's all…I ask," John huffed, and also dropped his glance to his shoes. _...To stay connected, no matter the inconvenience…._  John hadn't said that aloud, but it didn't have to be said. His intention was understood.

"And, oh. One more thing," John cleared his voice before looking up at Sherlock. "What did they give you tonight?"

John's sudden change in topic took Sherlock off guard. "Who?"

"Your staff. At the restaurant. You must have done something extraordinary…." John coaxed, "Why else would they suffer your haughty and smart-arse bossiness?"

"Haughty! Bossiness!" Sherlock harrumphed. "You're describing Mycroft, not me."

"So, you agree you're a smart-arse," John snickered. "But seriously, Sherlock. They seemed genuinely unhappy to see you go; I couldn't make out clearly what they gave you."

"A silly parting gift…" Sherlock shrugged it off. "They expressed their relief and appreciation that I had dispatched Atkinson from the restaurant-deliveries routes."

"From what you reported tonight, I gathered you were the chef that complained to the restaurant supplier and got him sacked." John bit his lower lip in thought, "Probably in their eyes, it was a heroic thing to do, to stand up to a dreadful bully of a man like that." John put out his hand, palm up, "May I see?"

Sherlock unbuttoned his great coat and pulled a long object from the breast pocket of his jacket where he had hidden it. He looked at it first and chuckled before handing it to John. It was a standard-sized wooden spoon in polished beech wood. It had been personalized with the words  _Best Damn Sous-chef_ inscribed along the handle on one side. When John flipped it over, the second inscription on the handle read:  _And Bully Buster!_

"Huh!" John snorted in amusement and handed it back. "Not a dust collector on a shelf, this. Might say it's a  _handy_  award, one you can put to good use."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's lame pun and tucked the spoon into his greatcoat's breast pocket.

They resumed their stroll through the cool November night. More taxis passed. Neither man showed an inclination to hurry on his separate way, each enjoying the privacy of his own thoughts beside the other. After a short while, this silence was disrupted when John barked a laugh. "What did Greg say about you being a cook?"

"Lestrade indicated his skepticism…"

"Bruised your ego, did he? If I hadn't eaten at  _L'Effet_  tonight, I'd find it unbelievable, too. Have you ever shared these culinary talents of Scott Williams with Mycroft?"

"Not yet...Still deciding. He's always dieting...takes the fun out of things."

"Wouldn't Greg and Mycroft be surprised if they ever sat down to one of your dinners? Too bad, tonight was your last night at  _L'Effet._ I would've invited them there myself, especially to see Greg eat his words." John laughed again, amused by the scenario in his imagination.

Sherlock's distracted smile was his only reply and without Sherlock's reciprocal amusement fueling the flame of their levity, John let it drop. It was obvious by the slight twitch of his lips and the distant look in his eyes that Sherlock had retreated in thought. They passed a Chinese takeaway, still open at that late hour. As a customer entered, whiffs of herbs, spices and cooking oil wafted out the door.

Sherlock stopped in mid-stride with a delighted expression, "Brilliant, John!" His piercing eyes were back in focus. "Dinner!"

"Huh?" John pulled back and darted a questioning look between Sherlock and the Chinese restaurant. "You mean right now? You know I've already eaten…..enough for three days."

"Not tonight," Sherlock replied cryptically. "Well, then. That's settled." He looked toward the street and hailed a cab.

"What's settled, Sherlock?" John watched with a twinge of disappointment as a taxi pulled toward them.

"Never mind. Take this one home. It's later than I had promised Erika. No need to detain you longer."

"And you?" John paused when the taxi stopped in front of them.

"I'd rather walk a bit more to think…" Sherlock opened the car door for his friend. "Oh, yes, John. Keep Boxing Day free." There was something in Sherlock's mischievous grin that John found encouraging.

"Boxing Day? Well, that's about a month from now."

"True, but save it just the same," Sherlock said through a broad smile. With that, he extended his gloveless hand towards John. "And expect to be  _inconvenienced_  at any time."

The proffered hand waited. They locked eyes.

Beaming, John peeled off his own glove. "Counting on it, Sherlock!" He reciprocated with a firm, lingering handclasp that acknowledged how things have changed between them and yet remain unchangeable.

When they dropped hands, John cocked a curious brow. "So, Boxing Day, huh? What's happening then?"

Sherlock eyes twinkled. "Hurry, now."

John ducked into the cab while Sherlock handed the cabby enough to cover John's trip home and closed the door. He gave the roof an extra thump and watched the taxi drive off. Patting the pocket over his heart, he felt the wooden spoon and continued on his way, a man with a mission.

888******888

888******888

The End of the Mystery

Epilogue to follow


	6. Epilogue

**What happened on Boxing Day**

**The Set Up:**

Parliament's Christmas recess meant Mycroft Holmes's pre-recess diary was crammed with public commitments and secret affairs of state that would have crushed the fortitude of a lesser man. Yet dealing with responsibilities of global proportions energized the "most indispensable man in the country." It put him in a cheery mood. So when Sherlock requested the use of Mycroft's posh London pied-a-terre—some excuse about 221B needing to be fumigated several days before Christmas—Mycroft felt munificence; he granted Sherlock's request and paid little mind to how long Sherlock planned to stay. It hardly mattered; Mycroft anticipated that his government business would keep him out of the city and quite likely the country for a week. He did not anticipate returning until Christmas Eve.

Landing at Luton at half ten on the morning of the 24th of December, Mycroft directed his driver to bypass London altogether. An hour later, they arrived at the country residence where the Holmes' family held their Yuletide festivities. Once his driver removed his bags, Mycroft dismissed him for the two-day holiday, expecting Gilbert would spend the time with his family nearby.

Mycroft stood on the doorstep of the red-brick cottage, rolled his neck and shoulders and prepared for one of the toughest challenges of the year—being hugged and kissed and squeezed with overwhelming affection by Mummy. While he had long-since grown accustomed to this seasonal invasion of personal space by his doting mother, along with his father's reminders how she worried, he tried to be the good son by not showing his distaste for parental sentiments. His efforts were moderately successful. They were not deterred but seemed pleased.

"Sherlock here yet?" Mycroft asked as he followed his parents into the chaos of a kitchen disordered by his mother's voluminous food preparation for their Christmas feast.

"He's on his way," Mummy said.

"A few last-minute chores in London," Father explained. "Soon, I expect."

"Harrumph!" Mycroft frowned but held his peace. As irritating as the Holmes' traditions were to them both, if Sherlock were the dutiful son—which he had decidedly become of late—he also would spend family time in the country: their sons' presence, even briefly, was their parents' only holiday desire. Both sons would return to London on Boxing Day.

88**88

**The Prep:**

Sherlock took over his brother's residence as soon as Mycroft had flown to points undisclosed. The Holmes' household had once hosted affairs to impress the PM and various members of the House of Lords, but those events were long in the past, having ceased once Mycroft had gained position and top-secret status. Still, Mycroft's pied-a-terre was ideal for hosting an intimate affair with friends. The dining room was welcoming with its wainscoting in warm polished oak while leaded-glass windows bathed the room with soft December daylight. With Mycroft both conveniently out of the way and unaware of his younger brother's plan, Sherlock had the entire week to prepare unbothered and unimpeded for his Boxing Day fête.

The dinner would be an evening affair and lighting would be crucial in setting the proper ambiance, so Sherlock tested the lumens of the wall sconces and chandelier. For a dramatic flair, he brought out the silver candelabras—Vernet family heirlooms that had been tucked in anti-tarnish cloth for ages in the back of Mycroft's cupboards. A bit of polish was all they needed to bring them back to full luster.

Upon a fine linen tablecloth Sherlock set the table for six with the Holmes' family treasures. The silver shell-pattern cutlery, the delicate Crown Derby fine bone china in the old Imari pattern, and Waterford crystal he polished and washed spotless until they gleamed and sparkled. Linen serviettes graced each setting.

Most of Sherlock's time was spent in Mycroft's well-appointed kitchen. Several years earlier the kitchen had been modernized, fitted with stainless steel appliances— _rarely used_ , Sherlock noted—and a luxury, high-end AGA oven— _never used_. With its requisite appurtenances, Scott Williams would have no trouble creating master dishes here.

Respecting the contents of his brother's larder, pantry, and prized wine-cellar, Sherlock had scoured Borough Market for fresh ingredients for the menu and a selection of choice cognacs, champagnes, and brandies to pair with his starters, dishes, and desserts. Mycroft's empty refrigerator had ample room to hold the plethora of ingredients for the Boxing Day menu.

To satisfy his need for the dramatic, Sherlock decided upon a main dish everyone would know and appreciate—raised-game pie. It would provide a fabulous presentation as the centerpiece of his dinner and would put to good use the grouse he annually received as a gift for past services from the current Duke of Denver—Lord Peter Wimsey's grandson Paul Bredon——who still hunted game on the substantial estate in Yorkshire. Although Sherlock customarily received a brace of grouse, this year at Sherlock's request Wimsey included some pheasant—more meat for the pie. Sherlock had accepted the Duke's offer to hang the game meat along with his own until, improved by aging, they were ready for Sherlock's pie preparations. With the birds in hand, via the Duke's special courier bringing them to Mycroft's kitchen, Sherlock was set for his main course.

Ensconced in his brother's home, Sherlock planned and strategized all his courses. On Christmas Eve morning, he brought in the wait staff—people he had vetted and culled from the most discreet servers—to rehearse the courses. Once they had passed muster, he dismissed them and finished the day preparing the desserts until he could no longer delay his departure to the country. Before leaving, Sherlock took one last look around. He ticked off in his head the to-do list for the morning of the 26th. He knew when to expect the last, prearranged delivery of ingredients from Fortnum & Mason, when his wait staff would arrive, when the florist would deliver the table's centerpiece, and when precisely he would execute his dishes in anticipation of his guests. Satisfied with his well-planned scheme, Sherlock locked Mycroft's door, and hurried off into the foggy Monday evening to celebrate the holiday

88**88

Christmas with his parents and brother had been uneventful. All did their best to get along famously—it helped that Sherlock had been neither provocative, rude, nor moody—but before dawn on Boxing Day Sherlock slipped out from his parents' cottage. This was not uncommon. In the past, he had needed no excuses to bolt without so much as a good-bye. He hated good-byes and avoided them entirely, but this year Sherlock was a man with a purpose and drove the rental car back to the outskirts of London, before taking the Tube to Mycroft's London residence.

Early on the 26th in Mycroft's kitchen, the eager chef unloaded the deliveries, assembled his herbs, spices, and oils and set up his cutting section with his sharp knives. Stepping back to survey the kitchen he had meticulously laid out with all the ingredients, he smiled like a maestro smiles upon his musicians moments before a concert. Then lifting his prized wooden spoon, Scott Williams rapped it twice upon the worktop and began to conduct a symphony of tastes.

88**88

**The Guests:**

" _Keep Boxing Day free_ ," Sherlock had told John at the end of November.

Consequently, the next day John had arranged with his childminder to take Rosie the evening of Wednesday, the 26th December, then he waited. After two weeks, his patience had been rewarded and his suspicions confirmed when he had received a succinct dinner invitation by post. In typical Sherlock fashion, it sounded like a demand:  _"Herewith, I require your company at a Boxing Day Dinner prepared by Master Chef Scott Williams. Arrive at 17:00 hours. Be punctual. Bring no guests, but come with an appetite."_

After providing the address, the invitation ended with three final words, underscored for emphasis:  _No Regrets Permitted!_ It was signed "Sherlock Holmes" in his unmistakable scrawl.

While standing on the pavement in front of the white stucco-front period building—dusk descending on a mild December night—John recognized where he was from his rare visits to Mycroft's Mayfair residence. What was Sherlock up to and how much of it did Mycroft know, if at all? It was entirely possible that Mycroft was unaware that Sherlock was having company. It was equally conceivable he was out of town on government business and would not be privy to the affair within his own home.

What had Sherlock said about Mycroft and his diets?  _"…takes the fun out of things,"_  John recalled, chuckling to himself, and checked his watch. It was 4:54. Who and where were the other guests?

The chirpy chatter of familiar voices nearby answered his question. Martha Hudson and Molly Hooper—"MH2," Sherlock had referred to them since sharing the Godparent's role with Rosie's' two Godmothers. "And Mycroft makes MH3," he had added as an afterthought—were walking toward him with bemused expressions. Their eyes searching for the street numbers illuminated by the wall lanterns showed relief when they recognized John.

"John!" Molly acknowledged him with a shy, dimpled smile.

John barely had time to respond before they were startled by the authoritative voice of Greg Lestrade, heralding his timely arrival, "Oi! The usual suspects, is it?"

"Hey, Greg!" John coughed to hide his amused snicker and shook the DI's hand. He was particularly looking forward to seeing Sherlock take the piss out of Lestrade with the grand reveal.  _Serves Greg right_ , he thought while giving Greg his broadest grin. That night when Sherlock solved the asphyxiation cases, Greg had scoffed **,**   _"At least you weren't a cook! That, I'd never believe."_

"Ladies, you're both looking well. Merry Christmas," Greg nodded politely to the two women.

"No. Happy Boxing Day!" Mrs. Hudson corrected him with a girlish giggle. "A private dinner with a chef. Isn't this special? And Sherlock arranged it all. You think it's his way of thanking us? For all the things we do the rest of the year…?"

"Whatever  _this_  really is…," Molly added with a twinkle in her eyes. "We're  _both_  quite curious."

"That's what brought me round today," Greg snorted a laugh. "So, John, what gives? You must know something about this invite?"

"Can't say," John smiled evasively **.**  "Probably know less than I think."

"Well, I'd be glad to meet this bloke, this Scott Williams, face to face. Y'know, he's been a hard one to track down after the Atkinson case," Greg hesitated. He, along with the two women, was distracted by the bright headlamps of a black saloon car pulling into the kerb. Mrs. Hudson and Molly eyed it as Greg continued, "The chef had landed another restaurant gig in the States. Eventually my detectives rung him up and got a statement from him about the Atkinson case. He confirmed what Sherlock told me. So, if this invitation's to be believed, Chef Williams's back now—" Greg cut off when he saw who was getting out of the car.

"Oh, dear! It's Mycroft!" Mrs. Hudson hissed to the others, sounding like a child caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. She turned to John. "What should we do? He's going to ruin Sherlock's party. What's he doing  _here,_ anyway _?"_

"Well, it  _is_  his home, Mrs. Hudson," John admitted much to her surprise. Greg and Molly, too, were taken aback by this revelation and exchanged astonished glances. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson's worry seemed justified.

Mycroft's face briefly registered dismay, then irritation when he saw who were waiting on his doorstep, and just as quickly went neutral. He, too, clutched an invitation in his hand. It had been waiting for him on a silver tray when he had returned from Downing Street to his office late that afternoon. After a tedious and frustrating day settling national matters with uncooperative foreign bureaucrats, he had hoped to salvage what was left of the Boxing Day holiday by seeking solace in his home—not company. Sherlock's formal note suggested otherwise. Vexed by his brother's nerve to use his private home, Mycroft wondered at his own foolishness for not having suggested Sherlock go to one of his bolt holes instead during the fumigation.  _What have I got myself into now? And what have you been up to while I was away?_

The answers—four of them—stared Mycroft in the face. He gave them an impassive glance and checked his pocket watch. "Hmmm. 4:59. It has been said, 'Punctuality is a virtue because it shows respect for the lives of others.' For my brother, it has more to do with scientific timing. What mischief awaits us I wonder?" Mycroft unlocked the front door and led the way into the vestibule where delectable aromas greeted them. The four looked at each other, intrigued and smiling—Mycroft's nostrils flared—and all five followed their noses.

88**88

**The Reveal:**

A server greeted them at the door and took their coats. "Please go through to the library...for drinks and starters..."

Mycroft scrutinized the man dressed in black trousers, crisp white shirt, and black bow tie collecting their coats and who seemed to weather the intense Holmesian stare as if accustomed to it. Not liking to be directed anywhere in his own home, he blew past the server with a dismissive huff, "My brother?"

"... in the kitchen…," he tilted his head.

The server led Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg to the library, but John hesitated. Mycroft stormed past more servers bearing trays of ratatouille on garlic points, caviar canapes, goose liver pâté served with toasted brioche, cornichons and chutney and tomatoes Rockefeller. The aroma of baked tomatoes stuffed with spinach and cheese was nearly irresistible but Mycroft fought his desire to follow the food. He pushed his way into the kitchen.

Purposely trailing his friends, John listened for Mycroft's reaction on the other side of the kitchen door. " _Sher!_ -lock?—" he heard, but it was hard to tell by the elder Holmes' tone if he were angry or surprised.  _Likely a mix of both_ , John snickered in delight. Tempted though he was to witness the fireworks between brothers in the kitchen, John reluctantly followed the others through to the library.

The taste sensations of the starters along with the open bar—the Bellini cocktail was Mrs. Hudson's particular favorite—encouraged lively conversation about movies, local gossip, travel plans, and good old times among the friends. Molly, with her inhibitions diminished, was more prone to witty repartee with Greg and John and fell easily into cascading giggles with Mrs. Hudson. Eventually, Sherlock and Mycroft joined them—Sherlock looking flushed by exertions and Mycroft by an unexpected dinner party. Mycroft accepted the samples the servers presented on the trays with as much dignity as his lingering astonishment permitted. John noted with amusement how Mycroft's eyelids fluttered closed as he savored the delectable flavors.

After the small assembly had had ample time for chatting and sampling, the first server politely murmured something to Sherlock who gave a quick nod and turned to his guests. "Please everyone!' His crisp voice silenced the room. "Shall we go through? Dinner is served!" Sherlock took Mrs. Hudson's arm and led all, including Mycroft, to their seats at the festive dinner table adorned by a floral arrangement of Naomi roses, orchid flowers, holly sprigs of bright berries and glittering, gilded winter foliage.

"Heaven's, Sherlock!' Mrs. Hudson voiced her amazement at the beautiful setting and gave his forearm a tight squeeze of delight, before he seated her.

They enjoyed oyster stew, plump oysters in a creamy sauce, with a nice rosé wine. The wait staff moved silently and efficiently to remove the bowls and serve the next course: palate-cleansing lemon sherbet, scooped into delicate balls, nestled in crystal dishes. Once the servers cleared the sherbet dishes, Sherlock rose from the table and excused himself "to confer" with his chef; he was gone for several minutes before returning as if all he had done was talk.

John, aware of the ploy, glanced toward Mycroft for confirmation, who despite meeting John's gaze, betrayed nothing. John wondered how long Sherlock would play chef and host without revealing his dual roles. The longer Sherlock delayed the inevitable, the more John's excitement grew and the more he admired his brilliant friend's stamina. It was the most delicious secret—to know that Sherlock as Chef Scott Williams was preparing the entire menu, directing the trained wait staff to bring each successive remarkable dish from the kitchen. How much more amazing it was to watch Sherlock pretend otherwise as he sat and dined with his friends and brother in an atmosphere of unprecedented conviviality!

The diner's  _oohs_  and  _aah_ s grew more appreciative with each artistic presentation: side dishes of sautéed asparagus, baked beetroot with herby hazelnut crumb and goat's curd, roasted celery root and carrots with parsley and dill. Delighted applause erupted, however, when the raised-game pie was brought to the table. Formed in an antique Georgian mould, the crisp and rich, hot-water-crust pastry trapped the savory meat juices. It was a handsome centerpiece for the Boxing Day dinner. John caught his friend's eye across the table and gave him a smile and nod of admiration. Sherlock smiled back with satisfaction, pride, and something else, something deeper... _affection?_  …for those gathered there.

The warm flush John felt was not just from the abundance of fine wines and exceptional cuisine. It was from the realization that this feast was more than it appeared. Sherlock was not showing off his exceptional culinary skills. He was revealing his great heart with the food he had prepared for the special few whom he had invited to this Boxing Day feast.

Mycroft, too, seemed uncharacteristically moved—enough to stand and address everyone present. "May I make a contribution," he pulled from the silver ice bucket nearby a choice bottle of chilled Pommery Extra Brut, "to pair with this magnificent raised-game pie." He eyed the label with a fondness rarely seen on his face. "Seeing the menu for us tonight I brought this up from my cellar… It had been the preferred champagne of the ducal house—Wimsey. Found it quite good at my last visit in Yorkshire— _Ah!_ " He popped open the bottle with surprising skill and handed it to a server who poured for all in quick time.

The gusto with which they enjoyed the pie belied the amount of starters and sides they had consumed prior. The delicious blends of herbs and spices enhanced the flavorful game bird while the blackberry jelly offered the perfect balance as the sweet accompaniment. And then the salad course followed: a simple bed of endive drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar to lighten the stomach and relieve the sense of fullness.

Patting his stomach and leaning back in the chair, Greg groaned, satisfied and satiated. "Can't remember when I've ever eaten like this."

"Like the royals," Mrs. Hudson enthused highly influenced by the evening's spirits.

"We shouldn't forget to thank him, Sherlock," Molly smiled, her doe-brown eyes, dreamy—an effect of the Pommery, evidently. "The chef, I mean. Is he still in the lab, um, kitchen?"

John's posture stiffened. The meal had progressed for several hours without Sherlock making any hint that he was behind it all; John had expected Sherlock would tell them after dessert, if at all. Was this request premature? When had Sherlock planned to tell them he  _was_  their chef?

Greg stood and raised his glass, "To the chef!"

Brought to her feet by Greg's example Molly also cheered. "To the chef!"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson agreed pushing herself up slowly, "We must meet your wonderful chef!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Of course," he said after several seconds of consideration; he dabbed the serviette against his lips, and rose from his seat. "Follow me, please. You can meet him in the kitchen."

Molly was swift, though slightly unsteady, as she moved away from the table. Greg pushed back his chair and helped Mrs. Hudson with hers. She took the arm he offered to lead her away. Only John and Mycroft remained frozen in their seats, aware that the moment was upon them—the moment John had been waiting for all evening. He sprang to his feet, bypassed the three friends and reached the kitchen door right behind Sherlock.

"Wouldn't miss this for the world," he whispered gleefully as Sherlock pushed open the door.

John was the first to catch a glimpse of a man he had never seen before standing in kitchen wearing a chef's hat and signature white jacket. A moment of confusion and disappointment gripped him: he looked at his friend in utter disillusionment, "Sherlock?"

Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson were right behind John eager to congratulate the chef. Mycroft alone was unamused to find yet another stranger in his kitchen.

"Withers!" Sherlock pulled back in surprise.

"Oi. You caught me. Snuck in just now, Scott," he grinned, "Well, I asked Davies to let me in…to see this big event you planned. You've outdone yourself, yes?"

"So… you're Chef Williams?" Greg stepped forward with hand outstretched to greet Withers. "Just want to say…you're a great cook! We've really enjoyed our meal tonight."

"Why, thank you. Yes, I am a great cook," Withers laughed amicably, "but you're mistaken about tonight's cuisine unless you were eating at the restaurant two streets over. I'm Teddy Withers, chef at  _Le Gavroche_. I must hurry back, actually, but you're great cook tonight is the man standing right there," he pointed to Sherlock, "an even greater chef, Scott Williams!"

Greg turned, his eyes darting in confusion between Sherlock and Withers, while Molly and Mrs. Hudson stood in silent shock.

John beamed both with immense pleasure at witnessing their reactions and with pride in his friend's accomplishments. As they exchanged glances, Sherlock's eyes twinkled in merriment igniting John's explosive giggles.

Until the shock wore off, Greg was speechless, but Molly laughed, quick to appreciate Sherlock's hidden talent: "What I've seen you do in the lab! Why am I not surprised?"

Mrs. Hudson couldn't stop exclaiming, "Sherlock? You did all this…  _cook_ -in'and  _bak_ -in' and plan-nin'…?  _My_  lord! "

"Sherlock?" Withers, looking perplexed, questioned, "Who's Sherlock?"

John doubled over, roaring with laughter.

"Family  _pet_ name," Sherlock replied evenly as he enjoyed John's escalating hysterics.

"Switched it around a bit though, didn't he?" whispered Mrs. Hudson clutching Lestrade's arm and leaning in front of him toward Molly who stood on Lestrade's other side.

Molly nodded at Mrs. Hudson and whispered back, "Yes. It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"You  _bastard_!" Greg growled finally able to talk and broke free of the flanking women. "You  _bloody_  bastard! So, you're Scott Williams! How the hell…? Learnt to do all this? You got me big time…this…this…this…, you unbelievable cock!" he shouted behind his astonished grin. "You cook?"

"This is hardly remarkable," Mycroft scoffed at their overblown responses to Sherlock's culinary exhibition. "Before he became such an excessively unruly lad, he was a curious pest, interrogating the household cooks  _ad nauseam_  with questions. They oft complained he demanded to know what they were doing and why they were doing it. He wanted them to explain the scientific process of cooking and how it chemically changed the textures and tastes of food."

"That hasn't changed much," Withers interjected with laugh. "Now he  _tells_ everyone in his kitchen the science behind the process. It's never been a taste thing for you, has it Scott? It's always been a science thing!"

"Always!" Mycroft sniffed. "Many a cook resigned. We discovered later he had berated them for their ignorance in chemistry and physics of food science."

John wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and clamped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Well, thanks mate." He heaved a breath to finish, "You pulled a blinder here! No one could've done it better."

"We're not done yet, John," Mycroft gave John a disdainful look. "I reserved three bottles of my best Pommery for the pudding. This celebration would hardly be complete without dessert—yes, Sherlock?"

Chuffed at his brother's praise, Sherlock smiled. "The dessert table…" he looked toward his wait staff for confirmation before continuing, "…awaits. Join us, Withers?"

"Sorry! My kitchen can only go so long without me. Must dash," Withers backed off with one last question, "Did you make your fabulous  _croquembouche_ , Scott?"

"And macarons, a  _Dobos_  torte, and of course, it would not be a worthwhile closer without  _mousseline de chocolate_ , no?"

"Show-off!" Withers shouted behind him as he left.

"So, you didn't plan this part, then?" John turned to Sherlock after Withers had gone.

"Hmmm. What part?"

"Your friend Withers… making an appearance to fool us? It would be just like you to create another layer of subterfuge to throw everyone off the scent—including me—for added shock value."

"Not a friend...a colleague...but you are a suspicious one, John," Sherlock's half-smile preceded his reply. "However, had I planned it, it couldn't have been better." He shook head, "No. I'm sorry to say, I had no hand in it. It was completely unexpected, a genuine  _coincidence_ , I assure you!" He grinned at Mycroft rolling his eyes and gestured everyone back to the dining room.

Lagging behind Greg and Mrs. Hudson, Molly paused to ask, "…when did you learn all this, Sherlock…and why have you been hiding it from us?"

"Shall we hold further questions or comments until we've been served dessert?" Mycroft suggested and eagerly led the friends into the dining room.

Sherlock hung back to watch; John waited quietly beside him.

"Success?" Sherlock asked softly from the side of his mouth, as if he would always need John's perspective to be sure.

"The best Boxing Day feast, ever!" came the reply in a voice tinged with warmth and affection.

A smile of great delight—rare and genuine—appeared on Sherlock's lips. He met and held John's glance, long enough for John to see that smile shine in his eyes, making their brilliance gleam even brighter. For a moment they stood in silent acknowledgement, then Sherlock gestured toward the dining room. "Shall we? Before Mycroft inhales it all!"

Trading chuckles, the friends walked side by side into the dining room.

**The End**

**88***88**

**Author's Note:**

> 88***88  
> 88***88
> 
> A.N.: A very special thanks to my knowledgeable friend for her amazing culinary advice. Sherlock/Scott Williams could not have done it without her! Gratitude and thanks go to Chai4anne to whom I owe new insights about bone china. I bow to her authority and family connections in this area of expertise!


End file.
